


The Lion in Winter

by feverbeats



Series: Patience and Despair [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe he keeps things like rings and canes not to remind himself that he’s a Malfoy, but to remind himself that he’s not wholly a Black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion in Winter

_and I will do thy bidding, polishing words  
so they gleam like ice, abandoning my rage  
to kneel before thee, swallowing my doubt._

 _But there is no answer when I call out  
and my longing darkens my throat, my mouth.  
How can I lift my eyes to a gutted sky?_  
-“Invocation” by Maurya Simon

 **Fourth Year**

“You don’t have to be such a prat.”

Draco feels almost bad, because that’s not what he meant to do at all, but he pulls a sneer over the feeling.

It’s blistering hot, and there are only two days left of term. Potter is just running on automatic, because he had to watch someone die, and because the Dark Lord is back, and maybe that's why he's being such an ass. Then again, maybe Draco deserves this treatment. He doesn't feel like he's in a position to say.

“Your dad was there,” Potter says.

Draco wants to hit him. Potter is always so _thick_ about father. “So?” he sneers. He’s going to have to start counting how many times he has to do that.

“So are you going to join up when you’re older, or what?” Potter snaps.

Draco pulls back, really _looking_ at Potter for the first time that night. Potter is sweating, his eyes are such a bright green, his hair is damp, and Draco tries not to let that distract him. “Yeah, I’m going to join up,” Draco says dryly.  
`  
Potter pauses in his righteous anger for a second. “Is that a joke, or not?”

“Of course it’s a joke, you stupid wanker.” And at the time, it is.

 **Present Day**

Hogwarts is dark. It’s dark like smoke and endings and death. There’s only one inhabitant these days, where there used to be thousands. He is sitting on a windowsill in what used to be the Gryffindor dormitory and staring out at the grounds. There’s a coating of snow on the ground, and it’s Christmas Eve. Dusk is falling, and it’s well below freezing. The young man on the windowsill is only avoiding pneumonia by wearing a heavy black cloak over his high-collared black suit. He’s nineteen, thin, and very pale. A black cane with a silver snake’s head at one end leans on the wall by his legs where they dangle off the windowsill. Pale blonde hair falls into his face.

The black castle of Hogwarts belongs to Draco Malfoy, not that he asked for it.

Later that night, Draco slips out from between dark sheets and puts one foot carefully on the floor. The chill is almost unbearable, and he draws his foot back, cursing. This is old news. He draws the covers up against his pale, bare chest. This has been going on for a while, and Draco has begun to formulate a theory as to why. He thinks the castle hates him. He also thinks that he’s been here far too long. After almost two years of living in this castle alone, it’s starting to get to him. That doesn’t mean he’s _wrong_ about the castle trying to freeze him to death. Just because its master is dead doesn’t mean it will let Draco in without a fight. He’s always suspected the castle of having a mind of its own, and now he’s sure.

The two summers he’s spent there have been as goddamn cold as winter and no more pleasant for it. He’s pretty sure that isn’t meteorologically possible, but who cares about logic in a place like this? Draco is winter, for all that his birthday falls in June, and he can’t really explain it beyond that. His family has always been cold, and now Lucius is colder than Draco, or maybe he always was. Draco is winter, but he hates being cold, and maybe that’s because of his birthday again, or because he’s too tired to think of anything else more important. Maybe it’s the same reason he chose the old Gryffindor dormitory as his room. It doesn’t matter which bed he sleeps in, most of the time. He tells himself he only chose this room to try to access some of the remaining warmth in the castle, but he’s probably trying to access something with even more red and gold. Still, summer doesn’t always mean Gryffindor, and it’s freezing, and there’s a draft.

Draco keeps things. His silver ring with the green stone is cutting into his hand, because it’s too small, or because he wants it too. He keeps it and the snake’s head cane to remind himself that he’s a Malfoy, although he’s not quite sure how he feels about that, either. He’s also not sure how he feels about being a Black. And he is a Black, maybe not because of Narcissa, but certainly because of Bellatrix. When she gave him the gutted castle of Hogwarts it felt more like a challenge than a gift. Oh, she trusts him, but Bellatrix Black (she goes by Black because Rodolphus Lestrange is dead, and because she believes in things like blood) likes to push things, to test them, and Draco isn’t sure if he can meet her standards, or if he wants to. Maybe he keeps things like rings and canes not to remind himself that he’s a Malfoy, but to remind himself that he’s not wholly a Black.

The cane is not Lucius’, though, for reasons that Draco is surprisingly unclear on. He didn’t hate his father, nor did he love him. He remembers facing the Boggart in Professor Lupin’s class in third year, though. He’s never really decided the reasons behind it. He never understood his relationship with his father, and it makes him feel sorry that Lucius is dead.

The wind howls outside, and Draco wishes there were someone else here, as much for warmth as for companionship. Draco _is_ cold. His morals have always been a shaky thing, complicated, or maybe not half as complicated, as they should be. He’s a bully, but then again, that’s not enough explanation for the way he occasionally feels. He’s what daddy made him and what mommy made him, whatever that might mean.

Narcissa is a dear thing, set away gently in a seldom-visited corner of Draco. Mother. She may be a Black, but it doesn’t mean the same thing with her, maybe because she didn’t believe in the blood war, or the one which came after, which was no longer about ideals, but about revenge. Narcissa is not, never was an idealist. She believed in normal, human things, and that’s probably why Bellatrix and Snape keep her locked up.

They’ve never _said_ it, of course, because they’re not that kind of people, but it’s clear to Draco that mother is trapped in Malfoy Manor, a place he’s sure now that she has always hated. Not, of course, that Narcissa could, _would_ do anything against Bellatrix. God forbid she should raise one white-wristed hand to stop anything at all from happening. Draco is angry now, and that warms him up a little. He’s not really angry with Narcissa, though, because he can’t afford to scratch and scar the little things that _are_ still dear to him. He’s angry at himself, really, no matter what sort of words he uses to say it, because Draco _does_ have morals, no matter how shaky, and his wrists are not so fragile as his mother’s.

Maybe Bellatrix knows he’s angry, too, and she knows that it’s only a matter of time before he learns to direct that anger at the right person. Maybe _that’s_ why Narcissa Malfoy (for even though Lucius is dead, as long as Narcissa lives in the manor, she _will_ be a Malfoy) is so carefully locked away.

Draco does not respond well to blackmail, but since he’s never sure if that’s exactly what it is, he remains in the black castle. Maybe he stays too because he’s still stunned, waiting for something to happen. It’s been almost two years since the Dark Lord’s death, and Draco hasn’t managed to process it yet. He’s sure he hates almost everyone involved, though, not just for being involved, but also for little, stupid, or surprising reasons.

He hates Snape for killing Dumbledore. Draco has always been very resistant to change, and he tells himself that’s the only reason. Maybe it is. He also hates Snape for covering for him with the Dark Lord (“He’s a foolish, weak child, but he is not our enemy.”), and he hates everything that happened afterwards in a terrible, inexorable sequence. He hates the horcruxes for their very existence, and he hates that they were so impossibly hard to destroy, but that Potter managed it anyway. He hates Potter for killing the Dark Lord. He hates the Order for letting so many of their members die. But most of all, he hates Nagini, the giant serpent, for failing to kill Snape.

 _“I don’t know about you, Bella, but I was never in this because of him.”_

He hates Bellatrix and Snape for leading the Death Eaters in taking over the Wizarding world. He hates the Wizarding world for doing nothing. Of course, he probably hates the little underground resistance group, too. He hates his father for fleeing Bella and Snape's army and even more for turning up dead. It would have been better not to have known. He hates Ron Weasley for dying, although he won’t admit it.

He wonders what time it is. It feels late. He shivers as he moves, curing against the covers in an effort to harness sleep. Why it’s the thought of Weasley’s death that makes Draco want to stop thinking, he won’t, or possibly can’t say.

The dream is always the same. Draco is sure it is just a dream, because Malfoys have never been particularly psychic. He’s surprised at the accuracy of the dream, though. Weasley is never in it, nor is . . . any other casualty of the war. It’s Granger, Lupin, Longbottom, some others he’s met in passing. They’re making plans to fight the Death Eaters. They’re using guerrilla tactics, although Draco has never liked that word. Still, it’s the only option open to the few remaining Wizards who don’t allow themselves to live with the Death Eaters, or else in fear of them.

Draco’s dream is fuzzy, unmemorable, but it involves a sudden hollow of warmth before he drifts off into other, colder dreams.

 _This dream is a memory. Lucius, clad in white (odd-looking, his pale hair against white robes), is looking out the window at Christmas. He beckons to Draco, because quiet moments are always good for a life lesson or two. Lucius is good at sliding those in just when Draco isn’t ready. Not that he’s ever ready. Lucius calls Draco (clad in blue, because even back then something in his head was edging him away from green and silver, and who knew the colors you chose had such significance?) over to him, and talks. Draco doesn’t really remember his father’s exact words. He doesn’t even really remember what Lucius said to him, but he’s sure it was something about blood. That’s what it always was. Draco stares at the white grounds of the manor, and his breath staining the window, and shivers, because he’s always been better at dealing in feelings than in colors._

 _Suddenly, it’s a different dream; one Draco has had more than a few times. His arm hurts, and he has the intense feeling of wanting to move. He remembers the pain vaguely, but worst of all, he remembers feeling pleased. The Death Eaters have always been an idiotic idea, and Draco is glad that one day he decided to listen when mother spoke instead of when father did._

The thought of Narcissa wakes Draco up, or maybe it’s the sun, thin, yellow, bright, getting through his curtains somehow. He sits up, cold as ever. It’s Christmas, and it takes Draco a good five minutes to remember that. He’s always liked Christmas all right, in a sort of detached way. There was always family around to make things a little stressful, but maybe it’s worse now that Lucius is dead and Narcissa is . . .

Draco lets the bright, sharp sun (not warm, because that would be too much to ask) settle on his chest as he breathes a bit, deciding. He gets up and starts to dress, wondering exactly why. Maybe it’s to do with Narcissa, and checking up on her, or maybe it’s a bad idea Draco just had.

He puts on a warm black coat and cloak over his t-shirt, which is only there because all of his shirts are too thin. This is no one’s fault but his. His gloves hide the ring, and he thinks he’s glad of this, for mother’s sake at least.

 _He was given the ring when he sixteen. He remembers sitting in class and staring down at his hand, and thinking about the ring and the mark on his arm and how tight the scarf around his neck feels._

 _He has a headache. He tries to focus and writes notes in handwriting that is almost neat enough. He glances over at Potter, whose handwriting is always messy, and he hates him._

 _Draco looks down at himself, watching the way his wrist bends when he rests his chin in his hand, and he thinks about dyeing his hair._

 _It's almost Christmas holidays, and he's going to have to go home to mother soon. Mother, and not father. What a terrible thing._

He walks down the stairs, feeling nothing much, because that’s difficult when it’s so cold. His gloves stick slightly to the inside of the door as he tries to leave, but that could just be paranoia.

As he steps outside, the wind seems determined to cut his cheeks as he moves slowly outside. His eyes water in an undignified manner as they scan the grounds. The thin layer of snow is blurred by wind, and it sparkles viciously in the sunlight. Draco’s eyes blur too, and he’s almost crying. The tears make his eyes hurt even more, and they hit his cheeks, which burn in the wind. He takes a step onto the grounds, avoiding the lake with his gaze. No need for more of this. Let this place hate him, he still recalls the grounds of Malfoy Manor well enough to apparate once he gets outside the barrier.

The path to the manor has not been cleared of snow, and Draco doubts it ever will be. Just another little reminder that it’s just a sophisticated prison. Draco eyes the trees that line the walk and wishes something very vague. He’s sure it’s not to recommence living in the manor, but it’s part of an odd sort of _missing_ feeling that he gets when he’s here. He’s actually only been back to this place two or three times since he tried to kill Dumbledore (or maybe that’s not what he was trying to do at all). He’s always had mixed feelings about his home, just as he’s always been torn between his parents. Draco hates complicated things, but there are, and always have been, so many in his life.

The path winds around for too long, and Draco may have apparated this far out on purpose. The manor surprises him. It looms suddenly, or not looms, but something lighter, sharper, like a sparkling white ballerina on point. Draco hasn’t been paying attention, but now he does. It doesn’t really make him feel anything, but the sharp crystal music of the manor makes him just a little angry, and a little deafer to the things he used to live with.

His gloved fingers brush the door, and he wonders for a second if he’ll be able to enter. The door opens though, and Draco almost smirks at the cruel ingenuity of this not-prison. There’s no one in the wide, cool entrance hall, and there is no Christmas tree. This lack catches Draco’s attention, and the little spark of anger returns.

He climbs the stairs slowly, running a hand along the smooth stone of the wall. _So silly to build a house out of stone,_ he thinks, _so impractical. It’s bound to always be cold. Not as cold as my bloody Hogwarts, though._

Draco opens his mother’s door, and he has to blink sun-blinded eyes. They clear, and he loses his breath. The room is open to the sun, and it’s small. There’s a bed with delicate white sheets against one wall. Narcissa is seated at a small table near the open window (Draco shivers), writing. She is wearing a white dress with a brittle, cold emerald necklace around her neck. Her white-blonde hair is up, and she has a shawl draped over her shoulders. Her face is empty, but infinitely beautiful. Her downcast eyes are full of the emerald glow of death. She looks paler than usual.

Draco clears his throat, and she looks up at him. They look at each other for a moment. _Too long without knowing what to say,_ Draco thinks. Then he says, “Happy Christmas, mother.”

She makes a sound that isn’t quite close enough to a laugh for Draco’s liking. “Draco,” she says, and the icy bells are back in Draco’s head, but he’s been well trained not to show things like that. Narcissa motions for him to sit, and he does, all unexpected awkwardness that catches him by surprise because he’s no longer a child. Suddenly knowing this intensely, he sits upright, removes his cloak, and lets idiotic small talk slip out of his mouth. Narcissa smiles, nods. She’s been just _fine_ , how nice of him to call, and Happy Christmas.

Draco falters. “I didn’t bring you anything.”

Narcissa looks at him, and her eyes are bright and sharp. “It’s enough.” Draco doesn’t know whether to feel sad, relieved, or guilty. “Are you hungry?” Narcissa asks.

He’s not, but he says yes anyway, and a House Elf brings them crumpets and tea, which feels somewhat fake, but he doesn’t say anything. He sips the tea, and takes a risk (because he can’t be sure exactly how close a watch Bellatrix is keeping on her sister). “Any news on Potter, mother?” It comes out like a taunt, a sneer, and he’s sure he didn’t mean it to.

Narcissa starts a bit, and her tea sloshes in its cup. “No,” she says. Then, “Why?” Why? As if Draco hasn’t asked himself that a million times since he got up this morning, or maybe since he was thirteen. When he doesn’t answer, she says, “I believe he’s still alive. Bella’s mentioned him.” So she still comes to visit. Draco doesn’t let himself interpret that. “They’re still trying to get an answer from him,” Narcissa says, and her voice sounds like she knows Potter is only nineteen, like her son.

Draco pushes his tea away. Now it’s his turn to ask. “ _Why_ , mother? Why the hell would Potter know where the rebels are hiding? We’ve had him in custody since a month after the Dark Lord died.”

Narcissa hesitates, and she’s paler than ever. “They think he’s the secret keeper.”

That doesn’t go over well in Draco’s head, and he finds himself clutching the edge of the little table. The reasons that he’s upset aren’t easy to pin down, especially in this house, where he’s learned to lie about how he feels. And maybe he feels more strongly about this than anything else, because his hands are _shaking_ on the table. Narcissa looks at him, and he can’t tell what she’s thinking. There’s a moment of tense, icy silence before she speaks. “Draco . . . I watched you, even when your father was too preoccupied with other things. I saw . . .”

Draco tries to tell her that there was nothing to see, but he can’t seem to get the lie out. He sits up too stiffly, too formally, waiting.

“You talking about him, and never mind what you _said_. You . . . had a Gryffindor scarf that you kept in your room.”

Draco finds his face getting hot. But no. He's not going to talk, not about this, not now. He lets the silence sink in and sips his cold tea. “Why don’t they just use Legilimancy on him?” he asks. “Potter was never very good at Occlumency.”

Narcissa shakes her head. “Perhaps he’s improved.”

Draco frowns. He doesn’t _know_ Potter anymore, and that bothers him more than his increasingly strong feeling of helplessness. He knows he wants to do something, although that alone took him almost two years to decide. That fact is, Draco has never really been loyal to anyone but himself, and in this situation, that may be a good thing. He’s never felt much loyalty to the Death Eaters. He _did_ give every minute of his life to them, but not because he cared about the cause. He wanted his father, who was rotting in Azkaban, to see that he was capable of doing the things the Death Eaters did. And in retrospect, that was rather pathetic.

Now Draco is seriously thinking about betraying the Death Eaters, and that doesn’t bother him. He’s always made his life all about _him_. And luckily for Potter, Draco wants him rescued. Maybe it’s for his own selfish reasons, but Draco is prone to doing good deeds without realizing it. He’d call it his least admirable quality.

Narcissa looks at Draco long and hard, and he shivers again. She asks, “Do you intend to do this?”

He doesn't know. He doesn't know whether or not he can take action, because he's spent his entire life just _getting by_ , and heroics aren't his style, despite the fact that Potter’s eyes were always warm and Draco feels a blizzard coming on.

But Draco _likes_ being warm, and maybe that’s something to do with how he found that red thread on his green shirt, although maybe that’s less to do with Harry and more to do with him. So he suddenly makes it less complicated and focuses on the way Harry's eyes burned through him once, furious and alive and full of feeling. And because he suddenly admits that that’s what he thinks of when he creates a patronus, he says, “Yes.”

Narcissa bows her head, her elegant hand resting on her cup. “Draco,” she says after a moment, “Go to the cabinet in the corner.”

He hesitates, frowning slightly, but he does as she says.

“Fetch me the crystal goblet and the bottle.”

Draco does, feeling a storm blowing in, both outside the window and in his head. He sets the bottle and the goblet gently on the table, where the crystal glitters for a moment before the sun disappears. Malfoys have always been long on style and over-dramatic gestures, and Narcissa slowly raises the bottle, one trembling white hand holding the goblet steady. Draco is frozen. Bright green liquid slides treacherously from the cold lip of the bottle and fills the goblet.

As Narcissa lifts the goblet, the green of the liquid is the green of her necklace, and suddenly of her eyes. “No,” says Draco, and it’s not a whisper or a yell, it’s just a word.

Narcissa says, “Now you can save him. You’ve always been brave,” and she brings the goblet to her lips.

*

It’s probably lunchtime now, and Draco sits silently by her, holding her cold hand. Her skin has paled to match her dress. Her eyes aren’t closed because Draco knows he couldn’t bear to touch her face. It’s not really snowing, but a few flakes blow in the open window. One lands on Narcissa’s cheek. Dramatic to the last.

Thin ice cracks in Draco’s eyes. He’s avoiding the implications of his supposed bravery, because the Sorting Hat is never wrong. Draco saw Snape destroy it, though, and maybe this is its final revenge against all Slytherins. Draco could never conceive of having a snake as a pet, but he’s always had a soft spot of cats. Suddenly furious, he stands, and for all danger of doing it with a storm on the way, he apparates. He pretends he doesn’t feel the swish of someone apparating into the manor as he swirls away with the coming storm.

Damn that sodding Potter for getting captured, damn Bellatrix for keeping such a close eye on mother, damn _mother_ for _dying_ , because that means he no longer has an excuse not to act. Mother may have believed that Draco is brave, but he knows he’s too much of a coward to want to face Bellatrix and Snape.

He arrives outside Hogwarts, wishing he’d brought the cane with him, because the wind is brutal. His face is cold and wet when he pushes the door open. Everything is counting down rapidly in Draco’s head, and he knows he doesn’t have time for a shower, but he decides to take one anyway. Bellatrix can go to hell. If she distrusts him enough to follow him here to his own shower, at least she won’t find him crying.

The hot water smashes the tears off his face, and he breathes in relief. He curls into a corner of himself that’s still warm, because the water isn’t enough. Today, however, it doesn’t go cold as it usually does. He isn’t sure how long he stands there, but it’s long enough that the water on his face is just water. Draco is good at reducing things in that way. Maybe it’s not quite avoidance, but it’s something close.

He dresses again, all in black. That’s a habit he picked up from Snape, of all people, back when he respected him, and Draco doesn’t have time to worry about color right now. Bellatrix is anything but stupid, and he doesn’t have the _time_.

Draco goes to his room after he’s dressed and stares out the window. It must be below zero, but it always warms up a bit after the snow starts. Draco is glad of his high collar. He doesn’t bother to create any sort of light, because she’d be able to see it, and the almost colorless sky is still bright. Besides, Hogwarts has never tolerated Draco’s lights.

He considers the fact that Bellatrix could damn well walk right in here, since she’s the one who set up all the wards. He never thought of it as a gesture of helpfulness, and now he’s sure. Bellatrix and her family have always been good at lying, being underhanded, double-triple-crossing people. Well, Draco’s going to surprise her. He’s not going to wait here to lie to her, or even to attack her. He’s not sure which would get him killed faster, actually, but he’s not going to risk either. He’s going to betray Bellatrix outright. He’s going to go straight to her damn castle (because she’ll be a _while_ looking for him), and he’s going to rescue Potter, because now he owes it to mother. Maybe he owes it to Potter, too. He’d rather not admit that, but Draco is not quite such a coward that he’d do a thing like leave Potter to rot, at least not for any longer.

It doesn’t really matter right now what’s going to happen when he saves Potter, although that will be a bit uncomfortable considering the terms they parted on. Still, Draco is never going to make it anyway, and he knows it. He probably won’t even get to the door of Bellatrix’s castle. It’s about to be a blizzard outside, and it’s not safe for him to be moving across the open spaces, not now that he’s made an enemy of his aunt. Of course, that could just be the old Black family paranoia talking.

Bellatrix isn’t _sure_ that he’s going to do something that, quite frankly, is idiotic, though. That’s why he can’t stay and lie to her. Draco’s worse at Occlumency than Potter is, and he’s up against the two greatest Legilimens in the world. He never thought he’d have to _fight_ his aunt and his godfather, but it’s quickly becoming clear that he _might_ have to. He isn’t good at straightforward combat and he isn’t really great at being sneaky. It’s beginning to look like he should have signed up with the good guys, who don’t generally start wars over nothing. They stick to fistfights, and Draco always found that to be unsophisticated. Maybe that’s why the hat put him in Slytherin. Because he’s a _snob_.

His mind is still counting down. A half hour for Bellatrix to search the manor from top to bottom. Another twenty minutes to walk from the apparation barrier to the door. Draco took those twenty minutes too, though, and he took time to shower. Of course, Bellatrix won’t have come here without alerting Snape, and that could have led to arguments, discussions. For all Draco knows, though, Bellatrix is already inside. Hogwarts itself is massive, though, and it will take a long time to search, especially since Draco has never told Bellatrix which room he chose. Once she finds the Slytherin common room in ashes and the dorms empty and cold, though, it won’t take her long to guess.

Draco isn’t really sure he destroyed the common room because of any resentment towards his House, at least not at the time. He was just angry and upset. No one will be using the room anymore, anyway. The others joined the Death Eaters, and those who didn’t are dead, of course. Draco slips his gloves off with that thought, because he actually _liked_ Vincent Crabbe, and now he’s angry.

At least the castle might buy him some more time, he realizes suddenly. It may hate him, but his shower didn’t go cold today, and maybe it hates Bellatrix more.

The unused trunk under the window rattles, startling him. He relaxes his fingers on the sill. Just the Boggart. Aunt Bellatrix gave it to him, in case he ever needed it. Draco almost swears. That wasn’t why. She was trying to drive him as crazy as she is. The Black family paranoia makes him hold back, but if there’s a House for curious people, it’s Gryffindor, and Draco didn’t court one for years not to be affected by it. Or maybe, again, it’s just him.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but maybe it’s because he knows he’ll probably never come back here, and he can’t even see his father’s face in his mind, and he has to know. He knows that if it’s Lucius, he won’t be able to save Potter. The locks have frost on them, and they click back too loudly.

And Draco’s Boggart appears in sharp, harsh relief against the empty sky. The dark window frames a tall, sweeping figure that screams _drama_. Its white-blonde hair is blown back by an invisible wind. It wears a black cloak over a loose silk shirt, and its hand holds a cane, pointed at Draco like a wand. Its mouth twists into a sneer.

“Father?” Draco asks, but he knows it isn’t. He pulls out his wand. “Ridikkulus.” But he can’t laugh at himself right now, so he blasts it back into the trunk with his eyes shut. He finds that he’s shaking, because really, it’s goddamn _freezing_ in here.

He’s suddenly hit with an intense feeling of _wanting_ , of missing, and that’s new. Draco admits that he’s a selfish little bastard. He always has been. He’s always been sure he loved Potter selfishly, for himself. Than again, maybe he was wrong. Draco’s not sure he’s mature enough to cope with being so mature. He laughs and leans on the trunk a bit, one slim hand bending almost painfully.

He stands up straight after a moment and reaches under his bed for his broom. _Potter’s bed_ , Draco admits fiercely in his head. He slides his gloves back on over cold fingers and carefully opens the window. A thin figure in black is making its way across the grounds.

Draco says, “Fuck.” It’s not sophisticated or dignified, but it gets the job done. _Bellatrix or Snape?_ he asks himself. Probably Bella. If it took her this long to get here, she and Snape must have had quite an argument about what to do with him. He’s not really encouraged by the fact that his aunt won the argument. She believes in blood, but that stops working when her nephew proves he’s not a Black, or even a Malfoy, or probably even a Slytherin.

Draco stopped caring about what his relatives thought shortly after he got the Dark Mark, ironically. He isn’t sure what replaced that need to please them. Maybe he hasn't found anything to fill it with, and rather than move on, he's trying to cling to things he's doesn't believe in anymore.

He glances quickly out the window again. She's close to the castle now, and she's looking speculatively in his direction. He draws back quickly because she's _not_ going to the Slytherin dorm first. She should. She's always had high hopes for him, despite her distrust. Wait. _Snape_. He would have known what room Draco chose. Draco curses brilliant, careful, perceptive Severus. Well, he'll have to leave some other way.

He quickly slips out the door, feeling silly running from Bellatrix. She's his _aunt_. She's wouldn't hurt him. That's a stupid lie, though, and it will get him killed if he believes it.

His feet hit the stairs to the astronomy tower, and he's grateful that he put heavy boots on. When the snow starts, it's going to be murder. Draco flings himself into the empty circle of the tower, trying not to remember coming up here in the winter with Pansy Parkinson.

And Pansy was _cold_ , and Draco held her, but refused to go inside, because he was still trying to pretend that the cold didn't bother him.

Draco pushes the thoughts away. The bright gray sky pierces his eyes, and his head hurts. He can't see Bellatrix on the grounds anymore. She's probably in his room. He leaps off the tower and onto his broom, being sliced by the chill air.

He flies high and slow, wincing at how open he feels and how numb and aching his ears are. He's not wearing a hat. He probably should be, but he's not ready to admit that his practical side exists. Maybe when he finds Potter, but then again, Draco thinks that maybe the impractical part of him really _is_ him, and not another absurd affectation.

The wind buffets Draco, and he curses hard. This is no weather for flying. Still, he wasn't Seeker for five years for nothing.

 _It's about two hundred degrees, and Draco is laughing. He tries to stop himself, because hell, that's not dignified. He's wearing a t-shirt, because he can let himself go a_ little _when he's up here with no other Slytherins to judge him with those cold, brittle looks._

 _"Come and get me, Potter!" he jeers. He's thirteen, and Potter is still a new thing that he's discovered. Exams are over, and Draco can't imagine anything else but flying through the air, crossing paths with Potter, then veering away, playing chicken. It's a battle, but it's not serious yet._

 _They used to do that a lot, and not just in the air. Draco's bluff still hasn't been called on this last one, though._

 _Potter hurls the Quaffle at him, and the world burns._

Draco freezes.

 _Three years later, and Draco is losing sleep, missing meals, Quidditch, and lessons. He's missing_ life.

 _Pansy doesn't take well to it. “I miss you, Draco,” she simpers, and it strikes him that she'd be so pretty if she didn't do that._

 _He's worked up enough to respond. “I miss you, too! I miss you and Quidditch and sleep and food and getting my homework in on time.”_

 _That night, they have sex for the first time. It's awkward and terrible and Draco feels like the stupid teenager that he is. The room is cold, and so are they._

 _Pansy's skin is lovely, though, slightly darker than Draco's, and incredibly soft. Draco's is practically white in the moonlight coming in the window, pale and unhealthy, and he thinks they must be the least sexy couple ever. Skin. Draco sneers. Nothing's ever really about skin._

He hits the ground rather harder than he'd like when he sees them. _Dementors_. Aunt Bella must be _serious_ about stopping him. _No_ , he reminds himself again, _Snape_. Draco wasn't as subtle as he would have liked to think back in school, and Snape was twice as perceptive. Draco allows himself to be at least slightly comforted by the fact that Snape at least vied to save him at first. Draco wonders what Bellatrix said to him to convince him to let his godson die. _Probably the same thing that the Dark Lord said to convince him to join the Death Eaters_ , Draco thinks with startling vehemence.

Now Snape has thrown in all his efforts to kill Draco, or just to have him reduced to an empty husk. Draco wonders quietly how the hell Snape became this. He was so intelligent, and not the type to join cults on a whim. Even when he killed Dumbledore, Draco was sure he had another motive. He knew Snape had sworn to protect him, but Draco thought he'd find a way out of it. Maybe that's why Draco hadn't trusted him for help.

As the dementors swoop closer, Draco grinds his teeth and decides that Snape is probably insane. For all that Draco is used to his aunt's insanity, he still doesn't have a solid definition for the word. He ducks, supposing insanity is sending soul-sucking monsters after a nineteen-year-old, or killing an old man who is stupid enough to trust you.

Snape is a scholar of spells, a prince without a princess, and a bad person after all. He seems quite eager to sacrifice Draco. In fact, he's been going out of his way to do it.

Feeling angry and helpless, Draco starts sprinting across the grounds, away from Hogwarts. He reaches the gates just as he feels the cold seeping in, and it's partly the dementors and partly just the cold air. Draco can remember clearly enough the things in his past which make him flinch, and he's not going to let the dementors make them come any clearer. He spins around. "Expecto Patronum!" he yells, but he hears _“You don’t have to be such a prat.”_

The dementors back up enough for Draco's shaking hands to open the gates, wishing he had Lupin and his chocolate. _Time to join the resistance, I suppose,_ Draco thinks. _That’s the only way I’ll get some proper Honeyduke’s chocolate_. The memory hits him even harder as he reaches the bend in the road and sees Hogsmeade.

He isn’t sure when his knees give out, but it’s around when the smell of burning flesh wells up in his nostrils.

 _Suddenly, he’s back in Hogsmeade when he was eighteen, curled under a table, a perfect picture of cowardice._

 _Potter is there too, blasting things apart like any bloody Gryffindor, trying to save people. There’s more blood than Draco thought he’d ever see in his life, and most of it is Potter’s. The Dark Lord himself has been dead for a year, but Bella and Snape's near army of Death Eaters is here. The Three Broomsticks is full of fire and death and chaos._

 _After a while, it’s quiet. Draco is crying, and his arm hurts like hell, and whoever said there’s a “right side”? Potter, bloodstained, burned, and so god damn heroic, reaches under the table to Draco. Draco wouldn’t have done that. There was the fight in fifth year, and Potter’s high and mighty arrogance, and the mark on Draco’s arm, and he wouldn’t have reached out. But Potter would._

 _He can never remember Potter’s words, he was too busy staring at the Boy Who Had the Nerve to Live._

 _Draco yells, “Sectumsempra!” because quid pro quo, Potter. Potter goes down, looking horrified. Draco can’t run very effectively because his legs are shaking, but he manages to get outside. He knows he’s a mess, crying and bleeding and losing it, and leaving Potter to die. He wonders if it counts as murder. The others drew first blood, he just knocked Potter down. One-eighth murder?_

 _The fires are going out, and Draco isn’t aware of slipping to the ground._

He stands. Fuck feeling guilty. Fuck Potter’s arrogance, too. He’s going to have to accept Draco’s charity, if it can really be called that after all this. Draco walks briskly around the village. He’s avoided Hogsmeade for two years; he can avoid it a little longer.

He starts out towards Bellatrix’s castle, hoping that Snape is elsewhere. Draco can’t apparate because he doesn’t know the area well enough, and he could apparate right into a blizzard anyway. He has to cross a lot of open ground, and that _can’t_ have been intentional, can it? Hogwarts is just close enough to Bellatrix’s castle (cold and abandoned until after the war; who knows who is used to belong to) for her to keep an eye on him, though, and it will probably turn out that _that_ was Snape’s idea too.

He stops. No sense dragging his broom along. An aerial escape route would certainly be useful, but the snow will be here before Draco reaches the castle. He lets the overly fancy broom drop in the roadway.

Soon, though, the roadway drops away, and he’s left to cross a huge, open field. He thinks he can almost see the castle in the distance, but maybe not. He hasn’t been there for a year.

 _Draco is eighteen, and he’s having dinner with Bellatrix and Snape. Sometimes it’s unavoidable. Oh, he likes them, in a vague sort of way. He used to look up to them more than anything. Things change, though, and he’s seen them kill. He’ll never hear Snape’s soft, velvet voice the same way now that he’s heard it whisper, “Avada Kedavra,” and even Bellatrix’s stretching, lovely, often harsh voice is a miserable siren in his head._

 _He plays with the edge of the black tablecloth. He knows that Snape would have preferred something other than black, because there’s a thin line between practicality and showing off. Snape lets Bellatrix win the little battles, though. This is before he leans so far beyond caring that he even concedes the important ones._

 _Bellatrix pours blood-red wine, and Snape sips a simple bourbon. Draco remembers a night at the manor when Snape was visiting, and he refused the alcohol that Lucius offered. Things have changed, and in a few years, Snape probably won’t even mind the tablecloth._

 _Draco tries not to answer their questions, partly because he feels belligerent, and partly because can’t think of answers. How do I like Hogwarts? Just fine, you bitch, thanks for leaving me the place. I think it’s trying to kill me._

 _Bellatrix and Snape are talking about a new network they've devised to keep track of their business, a way to transmit magical messages through the air, sort of a news network for two. Draco couldn't care less._

 _He lets himself drift in between their words, and it works pretty well until he gets a shock. He knows that they have some servants (for lack of a better, more honest word), but when Gregory Goyle, smiling and fawning, brings out their meal, it’s more than Draco can take. Gregory evidently isn’t as stupid as he always looked, and he saw what happened to Vincent. Draco doesn’t mean to trip as he pushes his chair back, but in the end, maybe it’s better that they see how upset he is._

 _Bellatrix doesn’t care, of course. She’s good at that. Snape, however, slips into Hogwarts that night and holds a shivering Draco in the one sign of affection Draco has ever seen him show. Snape is too smart to let Draco stay upset._

 _Bellatrix shows up the next day, though, and that’s when she gives Draco the Boggart._

And Draco realizes that all the time Bellatrix spent giving him nice things, and setting him up in the castle, and making sure everything was perfect was really just the setup of her incredibly intricate net, just in case he ever betrayed her. He knows he can’t out-think her, or Snape. He’ll have to rely on pure courage, then. He sighs. Well, that plan clearly isn’t going to work.

He walks on. His black boots keep his feet warm, but that’s never been enough. The sky is almost brutally empty and Draco’s steps on the crusty snow are like nails on a chalkboard. Every step is painful deep in his ears, his jaw.

And then the snow starts.

From the almost white sky, the flakes pour out onto Draco. He walks faster, determined not to let it shake him. He is shaking, though. He feels singed by the snow, and that’s completely wrong. He walks on, realizing that maybe the castle is too far away, rather than too close. How long has it been since he’s walked through a blizzard? Has he ever? Then he remembers one freezing time in fourth year after the Yule Ball when he stood outside and Potter never showed up because they were having another stupid fight, and that was worse than a blizzard. Draco is determined that he doesn’t believe in _quid pro quo_ anymore, and that he won’t keep Potter waiting in the freezing cold.

The snow deepens quickly, and the sky darkens. Draco isn’t even sure if he’s going in the right direction anymore. Finally he stops, breathing hard.

Snape’s voice is suddenly there like a wedge in his mind. _Breathing hard or hardly breathing?_ And what would normally be an idiotic joke is haunting in Draco’s ears, and Snape knows it.

Draco stands still, trying to imagine himself as one of the exquisite ice statues that Hogwarts had at Christmas. It’s no use. Snape will still get in. Draco isn’t even sure he’s anywhere close. He’s become extraordinarily powerful, and for all Draco knows, he’s sitting quietly in Bellatrix’s castle, whispering into Draco’s head.

Draco keeps walking, careful, tense. The snow seeps into his boots and into his head. This is a new kind of cold, a deep, wet cold, and he feels his thoughts slowing gently.

Snape’s voice is there again. _You are freezing to death . . . how unfortunate._

And there is another voice alongside it, whispering, lulling. _Sang froid . . . Draco Malfoy._ Bellatrix laughs softly.

Draco stumbles in the snow as Snape’s voice drives in farther. _I promise you Potter is not dead . . . I promise you he is not living._

 _La sang de son père. . . les cimtieres de ta mère,_ hisses Bellatrix. Crazy or not, she gets into Draco’s head, and he understands. The snow clouds everything. _Not safe_ , Bellatrix continues acidly, _Not safe for little Slytherin boys qui n’aiment pas des serpents. Tu a causé tellement l'ennui._

“That don't love serpents” he translates clumsily through cracked lips, guessing at some of the words. “You have caused so much . . . boredom?”

 _Trouble,_ Snape's voice hisses in his ear. _What you have caused is trouble._

And then Draco is on the ground, and Snape’s matter-of-fact, deadly tone announces, _Ladies and Death Eaters, allow me to introduce the original Draco Malfoy!_

They sweep around him, figures in dark robes that are no longer necessary to hide their identities. Draco reaches for his wand, but they slide icy fingers around his wrist, and he is too cold to move again.

*

A flash of cold light. His shirt tears over his ribs. Then his skin tears as well.

Blood cools on his chest. He breathes.

Bellatrix glows bright as day for a moment before Draco’s eyes let him down.

“ _Je vois la glance dans tes yeux,_ ” Bellatrix says.

“ _Va chier_ ,” Draco says, the only French he has bothered to learn.

Snape is a slim curse in the darkness, looking at Draco in that calculating way. Draco is completely lucid for a second, and he wonders if the emotion on Snape’s face is guilt.

*

Draco uncurls. He assesses the situation slowly, because his brain is still caught up in the icy darkness of Bellatrix’s castle. Not finding himself dead, he’s quite relieved. _Why_ isn’t he dead, though? The look on Snape’s face is a blanket across Draco’s vision. Maybe. He probably won’t ever know.

He may not be dead, but that’s no guarantee that he won’t be in a few minutes. He’s lying on the ground with the snow swirling around him, back in the middle of the field, wearing only his pants and the t-shirt he wore under his shirt. Both are torn, and Draco winces, feeling the ghost of pain flicker across his torso. He looks more closely at himself, and he sees scars running across his chest and ribs, looking as old as wrinkles in a map, dulled and faded to match the skin around them. He realizes with a shock that he can no longer tell the scar Harry gave him in a bathroom when he was sixteen from the new ones.

They must expect him to die out here. It’s not a far-fetched idea, either. They took his wand, but even if they hadn’t, his fingers are too numb to grip it. His bare feet curl under and over each other, seeking warmth that faded when the mark on his arm first flared. He feels the cold air slip into his lungs, and it’s like a dagger has fallen inside him and is quickly slicing his lungs in a pattern to match the scars on his chest.

He drags himself to his feet, because he’s always had a decent self-preservation instinct. The smart thing to do would be to go back to Hogwarts, but something is slipping into his head over that instinct, and he somehow has it worked out that once he finds Potter, everything else will fade into uselessness and absurd, old worry.

Maybe Potter will see that. Draco has to hope that he’ll at least accept help escaping, because apart from being brave, Gryffindors are _stubborn_. Draco tries not to breathe too hard, in case he drowns with snow in his lungs before he sees Potter again.

Things break in Draco as he walks haltingly back towards the castle. A lot of them are the old, selfish things, and a lot of them are things that he needs. He lets them break, though, because Potter will be able to fix them, and if he doesn’t find Potter, or Potter won’t help, everything in Draco will crystallize and smash anyway.

The snow beats around his ankles and the winds rips his t-shirt even more. He pants, drawing in more air to chip and lacerate his lungs.

And then he stumbles into someone, almost without feeling it. The world swims, white and painful, and he passes out. The last thing he feels is warm fingers clutches at his arm and a _whoosh_ of air.

Draco opens his eyes. He feels a little warmer, at least. Looking around, he realizes that he’s in a small, cozy house. He’s lying on an old couch, covered with blankets. The whistle of a kettle fades into his hearing, and something hot and painful and perfect surges inside him.

He tries to breathe. Oddly enough, he can feel his fingers and toes. His lungs scrape as he draws in air, and he lets out a noise like a whimper. But at least the warm air feels as though it's scarring over his shredded lungs, scarring over other things.

Lupin walks in, holding a teacup. “Hello, Draco,” he says kindly.

“Hello, you condescending bastard,” Draco says cheerfully, despite the throbbing in his head. He's alive. It's unfair and bloody lucky and maddening that he's been picked up by the resistance. They were, after all, on his hate list.

Lupin smiles, and there little wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. “Tea?” he asks.

Draco takes the cup, and instantly almost drops it. It’s too hot, and his fingers still aren’t working quiet right. Lupin moves to help him, but he gets control of it, steadies it against the arm of the couch. “No need,” he says, and there’s more of an apology in his voice than he’d expect. Maybe he’ll have to apologize to Lupin and the others for everything he’s done, but that will come later.

Longbottom joins them after a moment. He's lost a lot of weight, but then again, they all have. He looks a lot more strained than Draco remembers, but not as strained as Lupin.

Then Granger enters, and Draco can’t look away. Her hair is short, and her face is twice as lined as any of the others’, and she’s only nineteen. Most of all, though, she reminds him of McGonagall. Hard. Strong. He nods to her, and it’s part apology, part respect. Thankfully, she nods back.

She sits down next to Draco on the couch. “Feeling better?” There’s real concern in her face.

“Yes. And as I’ve been plied with tea, I won’t even insult you. How did you _find_ me?”

Longbottom nods at Hermione. “She did it. It was brilliant.”

“Never mind all that,” Granger says. “Did you really believe you could . . .”

“Save Harry,” Draco prompts. If they can't believe him capable of honorable deeds, he'll just have to remind them.

“Save Harry, then,” Granger says. “Did you really think you could do it on your own, with Snape and Bellatrix still out there?”

Draco is annoyed. “Yes,” he says, “And I bloody would have if you hadn't stopped me.” It would be been an epic reunion. Then again, he still isn't quite sure what to say to Potter, so maybe he's glad to have the extra time. Then something occurs to him and he swallows hard. “Does this mean . . . Look, my mother _died_ so I'd have a chance to save Potter.”

Granger starts to make a sympathetic noise, but Lupin cuts her off with a look. “No, Draco. Nothing done for a good reason is done in vain.”

Draco privately feels that that's _bollocks_ , and trite besides, and he says as much.

Lupin smiles a little. “You sometimes remind me of Sirius and James, Draco.”

“That's it,” Draco says, “I'm leaving.” He tries to get up, but his toes are practically frozen still, and he half-collapses back onto the couch.

Granger rolls her eyes. “ _Honestly_. Anyhow, it _wasn't_ in vain. You know the Black Network? Your aunt's magic channel for transmitting information? Well, when your mother died, Bellatrix transmitted that information to Snape, and, well.”

“Hermione hacked their network ages ago,” Longbottom says proudly.

“Yes,” Granger says, going a bit pink. “So we knew that you must be doing something.”

Draco does not like being predictable. At all. Then again, he's alive, so he decides not to leave just yet. “We have to get Potter out, though,” he says. He's ready for a barrage of accusations and questions about why he cares so much, but with Weasley gone, the questions don't come.

“We still have to deal with Severus,” Lupin says. He looks dry and cold and ancient as he says it, and Draco feels pity for someone other than himself, for once. “And Bellatrix. Once they're taken out, saving Harry will be easy.”

“Glad to see you're on the ball, then,” Draco says, irritated.

“We'll need a lot of help.”

Granger and Longbottom nod agreement.

“Stay,” Lupin says.

*

And Draco stays. He helps them gather firewood and find food. He helps Granger—no, _Hermione_ with the Black Network, because much to his surprise, he actually knows the ins and outs. He helps George Weasley draw up plans for the upcoming fight. He starts to feel warmer, more solid, more real. There's still something missing, though, and maybe it was missing since he tried on the Sorting Hat and maybe it's going to stop being missing when they rescue Potter. He can only hope.

One night, after dinner, they sit in front of the fire, drinking hot chocolate and poring over their nearly-completed plans. Draco has his doubts, however.

“This,” he says, “is worse than the Cedric Diggory Zombie Incident.”

“That's less funny every time you bring it up,” Hermione snaps.

“It happened,” Draco says stubbornly. “I'm telling you.”

Lupin rolls his eyes. “ _If_ we can focus, please. I think we're ready. Despite objections.” He glances briefly at Draco, who looks at the table belligerently.

“Fine,” Draco says. “But if we all get killed doing this, it's not my fault.”

Hermione sighs. “We won't get killed. At least not all of us.” At a look from Draco she adds quickly, “Sorry, joke. But I know why you're going like this. You don't want to prove us wrong about you. You want to be a—a bloody Slytherin coward.”

Draco stares at her. He definitely shouldn't have told her so much about himself. “Fine,” he says again, a little hollowly.

“ _Le feu_ ,” Hermione says, looking him in the eye and waving a hand in that direction. “Fire.”

It should mean nothing, but . . .

Draco is burning to save Potter.


End file.
